Lynna Banning - Dreaming Of A Western Christmas - His Christmas Belle / The Cowboy of Christmas Past / Snowbound with the Cowboy

‘Banning pens another delightful… heartwarming read.’

—RT Book Reviews on Smoke River Bride

‘Boyce captures the spirit of the American West.’

—RT Book Reviews on Salvation in the Sheriff’s Kiss

‘One exhilarating read… Take a deep breath and enjoy!’

—RT Book Reviews on Rebel with a Cause

LYNNA BANNINGcombines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.netor visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net.

A life-long Nova Scotian, KELLY BOYCElives near the Atlantic Ocean with her husband (who is likely wondering what he got himself into by marrying a writer) and a golden retriever who is convinced he is the king of the castle. A long-time history buff, Kelly loves writing in a variety of time periods, creating damaged characters and giving them a second chance at life and love.

CAROL ARENSdelights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam, and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she’s not writing she enjoys spending time with her family, beach camping or lounging about a mountain cabin. At home, she enjoys playing with her grandchildren and gardening. During rare spare moments you will find her snuggled up with a good book. Carol enjoys hearing from readers at carolarens@yahoo.comor on Facebook.

Dreaming of a Western Christmas

His Christmas Belle

Lynna Banning

The Cowboy of Christmas Past

Kelly Boyce

Snowbound with the Cowboy

Carol Arens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Authors

Title Page

His Christmas Belle

Dedication

Author Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

The Cowboy of Christmas Past

Dedication

Author Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Snowbound with the Cowboy

Author Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Extract

Copyright

His Christmas Belle

Lynna Banning

For my niece, Leslie Yarnes Sugai, and my great-niece, Lauryn Akimi Sugai

Author Note

I always think of Christmas as a time of hope—a time for recognising and accepting our differences and reaching out to our fellow human beings. It was no different on the frontier of the Old West, when people from so many different backgrounds came together and learned to appreciate each other.

For my niece, Leslie Yarnes Sugai,

and my great-niece, Lauryn Akimi Sugai

Look for Lynna Banning’s

Smoke River Family

Coming November 2015

Chapter One

Fort Hall, 1868

Smoke? Smoke was the last thing he wanted to see. The very last thing. The puff of black dust rose higher, and Brand’s heart sank. What now? A Sioux raid on a wagon train? A pine tree struck by lightning exploding into flames and starting a fire?

He reined in the black gelding and sat studying the sky. Hell’s bells, another puff of smoke. Dead west. Not the direction he was riding this morning. Not the direction he wanted on any crisp December morning, not after the telegram about Marcy.

Back in Oregon his sister had loaded her pockets with rocks and waded into Lake Coulter. What Brand didn’t know was why. Why would his sweet, beautiful little sister take her own life? Maybe he’d never know why. But he sure as hell didn’t want to head west, back to Oregon. Made his gut shrivel just to think about it.

Another puff of smoke climbed into the cloudless blue sky and he groaned aloud. What the...? Those were smoke signals! And he knew exactly where they were coming from.

He leaned out of the saddle to spit onto the hard brown earth of eastern Idaho and reined the black around.

* * *

Fort Hall looked just as run-down and dingy as it had a year ago. He rode in past the bored-looking sentry and headed straight for the sutler’s squat stucco building. As he tied up his mount, two disheveled cavalry soldiers clumped down the wooden steps. One snapped a salute.

“Major.”

Brand gritted his teeth. He’d mustered out a year ago and now served as Colonel Clarke’s scout, but every so often someone forgot he no longer needed to salute him. He tramped up the rickety board steps, his rowels chinging in the hot, still air, and pushed through the open door.

“Jase?”

A bearded older man with intelligent blue eyes looked up from the cash register. “’Bout time,” he growled. “I hoped you might see my smoke. Somebody said you’d been spotted hereabouts. Where ya come from?”

“Oregon. What’s up?”

Jase grinned, revealing a jaw full of yellow teeth. “Seen my signal, huh? Didn’t think ya’d ferget how we done it in the old days, but ya never know, do ya? You might be gone back east. Or dead. Or—”

“Well, I’m not. I’m goin’ to that cabin I got in Montana for Christmas. So why the signal?”

“Got a problem,” the older man said. “Big problem.” He tipped his graying head toward the back room.

Brand studied the curtained doorway. “Yeah? What kind of problem?”

“You’ll see. Whynt’cha go on back?”

“Jase, I can’t help wondering why this isn’t Colonel Clarke’s concern and not mine.”

“You’ll see, Brand. C’mon, I’ll show ya.”

Brand followed his old friend through the dusty curtain and stopped short. A young woman made an attempt to straighten up on the rush chair Jase had provided, then gave up and hunched over her belly, her arms clasped across her waist.

Jase laid one leathery hand on her shoulder. “Miz Cumberland, ma’am?”

She jerked up as if somebody’d just shot an arrow into her spine, but she said nothing.

“She sick?”

“Don’t think so, Brand. She’s damned scared is what she is. Kinda like battle-tired, I guess you’d say.”

Brand studied her. No apron. Faded blue dress. Shoes that hadn’t been walked in that much. Not sunburned. That was odd. Nobody, especially not women out here in the West, escaped the punishing rays of the sun.

He looked closer. Her skin appeared pale and as smooth as cream. Even the hands clasped tight across her middle were white and soft-looking. No red knuckles, and no telltale freckles. Looked as though she’d never washed a plate in her life. A hothouse rose if there ever was one.